


Beneath Your Wings

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Series: The Older Brother Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother Feels, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Comfort/Angst, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Domestic Discipline, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Non-Consensual Spanking, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Pre-Series, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Punishment, Spanking, Teen Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 20:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15178313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: Connor being cooped up with his two younger brothers in a motel room or a trailer or a crap rental home wasn't a new thing; he'd been babysitting them ever since they were, well, babies. Even before Mom died. Even before they were thrust into a world where fairytale monsters were real and nightmares were happening while you were wide awake.And Dean being in one of his moods wasn't anything new either. The kid was as much a handful at fifteen as he was at five – even more so once all the usual teenage issues started kicking in. Connor could usually handle him, though, even without keeping his leash as tight as their father did. But today Dean had come very close to making him break.





	Beneath Your Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Spanking of a teen by an adult brother - if it may offend, hit the "back" button.  
> Less-than-appropriate language, by Dean and Connor Winchester.
> 
> This work is brought to you courtesy of three wonderful betas: [ToscaRossetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToscaRossetti/pseuds/ToscaRossetti), [CrazedPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazedPanda) and [alexofthegarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexofthegarden/pseuds/alexofthegarden) \- thank you so much!

Connor really needed to get back.

He kept his coat wrapped tightly around him with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets as he strode on the frost-covered sidewalk. It was snowing constantly now, and despite the plows having been through once already, it was piling up again.

And it was damn cold, too. His cheeks were stinging with icy needles and he couldn't even feel the tips of his nose and ears anymore. It was definitely time he got himself back to the motel room to defrost.

Thinking about the room made him think about why he'd gone out in the first place. Being cooped up with his two younger brothers in a motel room or a trailer or a crap rental home wasn't a new thing; he'd been babysitting them ever since they were, well, babies. Even before Mom died. Even before they were thrust into a world where fairytale monsters were real and nightmares were happening while you were wide awake.

And Dean being in one of his moods wasn't anything new either. The kid was as much a handful at fifteen as he was at five – even more so once all the usual teenage issues started kicking in. Dad had the right idea in channeling all that energy, fearlessness and stubbornness into training; Connor willingly admitted that even with the five years he had on his brother, Dean was already well on his way to becoming the better hunter between them.

If only he could be as focused and attentive outside of hunts as he was on them. His brother was a good boy – there wasn't a teacher, neighbor, school counselor or landlord that would convince Connor otherwise – but he was hotheaded, a jokester, impulsive and had a mouth ten sizes too big for his own good.

Connor could usually handle him, though, even without keeping his leash as tight as their father did. But today Dean had come very close to making him break.

It was the damned weather, for starters. Being penned up in the little motel room did neither of them good. But to be honest, they had been caged together in so many rooms over the years, he really shouldn't have been bothered by it that much. And the longer Connor thought it over, the more certain he became that it wasn't so much Dean's mood that got to him, but his own.

Yeah, forgetting to get the crossbow ready for the last hunt had been negligent, stupid, a rookie mistake. But Dad shouldn't have benched him; that was even more stupid. Dad needed him out there, helping him track whatever was killing lonely elderly men, needed him there more than here, in this dingy motel room with the stained wallpaper and the TV that needed to be physically kicked whenever they wanted to turn it on.

Dean was able to watch Sammy perfectly fine on his own. Dad could grumble all he wanted about the kid not showing a shred of responsibility, but the fact remained that whenever they left Dean in charge, Sammy was always clean, fed, clothed and rested. No, leaving Connor behind had nothing to do with Dad's concern for the younger boys. It was because Connor had screwed up.

And sure it made Connor cranky and impatient. Anybody who wanted to condemn him for it could go to hell. He had every reason in the world to be in a bad mood, and when the combination of it with the effects of Dean under lockdown came too close to a head, Connor did the mature, responsible thing and took a walk.

The overwhelming cold outside did him good. He was ready to go back and face his little brother more calmly now. More than ready, actually. Jesus, he was fucking _freezing_.

He unlocked the door and stepped over the salt-line, absently noting it wasn't disturbed. He glanced around as he took his coat off; everything seemed to be pretty much as he left it, with the clothes and comic books and takeout containers scattered around, and the TV turned on and muted – they figured it was easier than kicking – but the kids weren't there.

"Dean?" Connor called. "Sammy?" There was a familiar pang in his belly, the one he felt whenever he thought something might be wrong with his brothers or father. It faded quickly, though, as he heard Dean's "in here", made his way to the bathroom and pushed the door open.

Sam was seated on the closed toilet lid and Dean on the edge of the tub facing him. They both turned their heads to look at Connor, and he was able to take in the med kit on the counter, the red-stained towel on the floor and the three Steri-Strips on Sam's temple.

"What the hell-" he was by Sam's side in a millisecond, crouched down and held the kid's chin with one hand. "What happened?!"

"I fell," Sam replied, not quite meeting his gaze. "I slipped and I fell and I hit my head."

"How did you fall?" Connor turned Sam's head to and fro, but there seemed to be nothing else wrong beside the bandaged cut.

"Just… fell," Sam shrugged slightly. He still didn't look Connor in the eye.

"He didn't just fall," Dean said. He had gotten up from the edge of the tub as Connor wedged himself between the two boys, and now circled his older brother to stand by his side. "He was running away from me."

Connor gaped up at him. "He what?"

"I was annoying him, and he got upset and asked me to stop and I didn't, and he got more upset, and I kept on annoying him, and he ran out the door and slipped on an ice patch," Dean reached to gently brush back a strand of Sam's hair that fell over the Steri-Strips.

Connor looked back at Sam. "Does it hurt, Sammy?"

Sam shook his head no.

"Of course it hurts, you fucking cut your head open," Dean said.

"Let me talk to Sam now," Connor patted his youngest brother's face. "Do you have a headache? Even a little bit? Or pressure?"

"He's gonna tell you that he doesn't, but he does. He doesn't show other symptoms for concussion, but he's either lying-"

"Let me handle this, Dean."

"Yeah, I'm just saying-"

"Get out," Connor didn't bother raising his eyes; he could see Dean with his peripheral vision as the boy retreated through the bathroom door. "Sammy, look at me, buddy. Do you feel like throwing up? Did you get dizzy? Are your ears ringing?" Sam shook his head again.

"I told you I went over the symptoms," Dean was hovering by the door, peering in. Now Connor did turn his head to look at him.

"And I told you to let me handle this. Quit it already," he could see that Dean was anxious with worry but calming him down wasn't a priority right now. Connor waited for Dean to close his mouth before turning back to Sam.

"Do you remember if you blacked out? Even for a second?" Sam shook his head. "Okay. You remember what day it is today?"

"Thursday."

"Right," Connor couldn't help smiling a little. "Did you see flashes when you hit your head? Or stars?"

"I _checked_ the symptoms," Dean wasn't technically inside the bathroom, but he was too damned close. Connor stood up from his crouch.

"Find a corner and stay there."

"But-"

" _Move_ ," Dean usually responded well to that military tone Dad used, but regardless, sometimes an order needed to be enforced with a sound swat to his ass; Connor was glad this wasn't one of those times, although with Dean out of his sight he couldn't be sure the kid was indeed putting his freckled little nose into the corner.

As Dean vanished from the doorway, Connor took Dean's former perch on the edge of the tub, and again held Sam's chin up to take a closer look at the cut.

He could see right away that there was no need for a Steri-Strip, much less three; it was hardly a scratch. Connor left them untouched and carded his fingers through Sam's hair.

"What happened, Sam?" He asked quietly. "Was it like Dean told?"

"It wasn't his fault," Sam's voice was equally quiet. "I shouldn't have run out."

"I don't blame you if you did, kiddo. He can be pretty efficient at getting on your nerves."

"It wasn't like he was deliberately trying to get me upset or anything. He was just going on like he sometimes does, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," that was why he was out taking that nice, relaxed stroll in the blizzard. "Did you get hurt anywhere else?"

"No, there was snow where I slipped. This rock I hit my head on was just at the worst place."

"Okay," Connor stroked Sam's head again and got up. "I'm gonna go talk to Dean, you stay here until I say so."

Sam's big eyes were following him. "Don't punish him, Connie. Please."

"Stay here, Sam," he closed the bathroom door behind him and scanned the room to find Dean fidgeting in a corner by the bed. If Dad were here, Dean would have had his ass smacked for that by now; not even his distress about Sam's injury could excuse him from keeping his toes to the baseboard and his hands behind his back like he was supposed to. But Connor was willing to let it slide.

"Dean, come here," he saw his brother's green eyes dart around as he turned and walked toward him.

"Did you leave Sammy in the bathroom? He needs to lie down."

"I'll let him out in a bit."

"I didn't give him any Tylenol or Ibuprofen. He must be in pain-"

"He's fine, Dean."

Dean stared at him. "The hell he is! Did you _see_ that cut on his head?!"

"Yeah, I did," Connor rubbed the hill of his hand over his eye. "It's not that bad. You just… you just need to remember not to let your mouth get away from you so much. You could've hurt his feelings worse than his head."

"I know," Dean looked so miserable, Connor almost smiled.

"I know you're trying, kiddo. And I know it's hard."

Dean nodded and dropped his eyes for a moment, then turned and walked over to where Connor's coat hung by the door. He dug the cell phone out of the pocket and held it out to his older brother.

Connor looked at it, and then at Dean. "What?"

"You have to call Dad. To let him know he needs to deal with it when he gets back."

Let Dad deal with it. With Dean. Which meant Dean would spend the next four or five days doing extra training and chores, and writing lines, and standing in various military stances in the corner in between assignments, and having an earlier bedtime than Sammy until Dad came back to flay the skin off his ass.

And Dean deserved to be punished, sure, but not like that. Because this wouldn't have happened if Connor hadn't left the kids alone. Dean didn't see it; Dad wouldn't, either. But Connor did.

"I'll let him know when he gets back."

Dean blinked at him. "Whaddya mean? He needs to know."

"He'll know. When he gets back."

"But he might want me to-"

"I'm not calling him now, Dean."

Dean stood staring at him for a minute and then flipped the phone open. "Fine. Then I'll call him."

Connor reached him with a few long strides and took the phone out of his hand. "Give me that. No one's calling Dad. You hear me?"

"But I got Sammy hurt," Dean was looking up at him, and Connor could see his eyes starting to shine with tears and his lips starting to tremble. "I made him so upset he ran out and got hurt. He could've run into the street and gotten hit by a car. He could've been snatched by a monster, and it would've been my fault. Dad needs to deal with it, Connor. You need to let him deal with it."

Connor looked at his little brother, at the desperate guilt so evident in his face. He wanted to pull Dean into his arms, to make that pain go away and the usual radiant, adorable grin appear in its stead. But it wasn't what Dean needed. He took a breath.

"Get the strap."

Dean's eyes widened. "But Dad-"

"I'm in charge, it's my watch, my decision. Get the strap."

For a second Connor thought Dean would argue, but he didn't. He went over to his duffle and crouched down to rummage in it.

Dean had outgrown hand-spankings quite early, and Dad upgraded him to the belt by the ripe old age of nine. It worked for a while, until that time when Dean was about twelve years old and came home from school with a detention letter for four days in a row, regardless of the whippings he received on each of the nights before. Dad was called to school on the fifth day to collect Dean along with his suspension note, deposited his middle son in the motel room and went back out.

When he returned, he called Dean over and held something up for him to see. "There's a leather craftsman's shop in town," he said. "I had this made."

It was a leather strap, about seventeen or eighteen inches long and three inches wide, that looked like it was made with two pieces sewn back to back to make it thicker and heavier. One end was fashioned to be a bit narrower for a better grip. Dean's face turned sheet-white at the sight of it, and practically ashen when Dad told him to drop his pants.

It had been a long time since Connor heard Dean cry like that during a whipping, and he definitely couldn't remember him _ever_ begging Dad to stop. It took him over half an hour to calm down, and he toed the line like a perfect little soldier for nearly a full month after that.

The effect of the strap didn't remain the same as Dean grew older, naturally. But Connor couldn't deny it got the job done, as reluctant as he was to use it himself. He still saw it as a last resort for times Dean couldn't be reined in any other way.

Dad had kept the strap in his duffle but made sure to put it in Connor's on the many occasions he left him to watch the boys; or so it was until that time when Connor forgot to pass it back before going to help Bill Harvelle with some special project for a few days while Dad and the kids stayed at Bobby's, where Dean apparently required three consecutive whippings with the belt instead of one with the strap.

Dean watched Dad and Connor yell at each other about it for some time before he got up, marched to Connor's duffle, took the strap out and dropped it into his own duffle with an irritated "there, now it'll always be where you need it." He had his still-tender ass swatted for the tone, but the strap remained in his duffle ever since.

Dean took it out now while Connor came to the bedroom area of the room. Dean handed the strap over to his older brother, then unbuttoned his jeans. Connor sat down on the bed and laid the strap by his side. He tapped his thigh as Dean finished with the buttons.

Dean passed his eyes from Connor's lap to his face. "I'm not a little kid."

"Yeah, you are."

"You can't get a good swing in that position," Dean was shifting his weight from leg to leg.

"Get over here and quit stalling."

"I'm not stalling. Jeez," but Dean came to Connor's side and pushed his pants and boxers down. He leaned forward and carefully draped himself over his brother's knees and rested his forearms on the bed.

Connor took hold of Dean's waist with his left hand, raised the right one and brought it down on Dean's bare ass. A few smacks in, Dean twisted his upper body to look at him.

"The hell are you doing, man?"

"Giving you a warm up."

"I don't need a fucking warm up."

"Not your call. Settle back down."

"You're just wasting time. Get to the fucking poi-"

" _Settle down_ ," it was amazing how much he could sound like Dad sometimes.

Dean twisted back, spitting "yes, _sir_ " as he went. Connor slapped the back of his thigh smartly and heard the sharp intake of breath.

"Don't you _fuckin'_ sass me, Dean."

"Sorry," came the meek response, and Connor resumed the spanking.

Dean could stand a great deal of pain, but it didn't mean he wasn't feeling any of what Connor was raining on his ass, and even though he didn’t utter a sound, Connor could feel against his thigh how his brother's breathing changed. He kept going until the reddening handprints on Dean's backside merged together and his own palm was hot and stinging.

He let Dean rest for a moment before reaching a hand to squeeze his shoulder. "I'm switching to the strap now," he said quietly.

"Okay," Dean shifted a little over his lap, laying his upper body flat on the mattress. He didn't do it to get comfortable, Connor realized; he was actually bringing his ass higher up. Connor gave Dean's back a rub, took hold of his waist again, and picked up the strap.

He _would_ get less swing in that position, but it was okay by him; that was the reason he made sure Dean's ass was already sore at this point. He had to adjust his hold on the strap and grab it higher up rather than on the handle end, then he touched the leather briefly to Dean's butt to let him know he was about to start.

Dean winced at the first swat, pushed his face into the bedspread and grabbed on to it with both fists. Connor kept a steady pace, letting the sting sink in before landing the strap again. He worked his way down over Dean's backside, finishing with a lash on the very tops of the thighs, and then moving back up for another round.

Connor wasn't going as hard as Dad would have, but he didn't want Dean to feel like he wasn't being punished enough; there was a good chance his crazy-ass little brother might maneuver Dad into whipping him again. Yet Connor didn't need to apply too much force to make it count – even without the extra leeway he would have gotten with Dean off his lap, the leather was heavy enough to roast anybody's rump, let alone that of a kid who had it warmed just a minute ago.

Connor monitored his brother's reactions very carefully, his muffled groans and the way he flinched against his knees. Those reactions were getting more intense, as was the color of Dean's skin, and even though Connor wanted to stop – God, he wanted to stop _hours_ ago – he knew Dean could take worse and made himself bring the strap down hard a few more times. Then he stopped.

Connor stayed with Dean draped over his lap, rubbing his brother's back and listening to his hitched breaths. He wasn't crying out loud, Connor didn't push him as far as that, but it was too close for comfort, and Connor moved his hand up and down Dean's trembling back, as if this could just transfer the hurt and pain and humiliation from his little brother on to him.

He took his hand off when Dean propped himself up on his elbows, and gently helped him to his feet. Dean wiped his face, bent down and pulled his pants up. Some tears were still streaming down his cheeks and he wiped at his face again, snuffling. Connor had enough. He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around Dean and squeezed him to his chest, moving one hand up to cup the back of his head.

Connor could feel Dean gripping his shirt like he and Sam did when they were little, like they still did today, sometimes. Dean's breaths started hitching again, but he was almost silent as he clung to his older brother with his head tucked under Connor's chin.

Connor tilted his head a bit and rubbed his cheek gently against Dean's head. All those teachers, neighbors, school counselors and landlords, all they saw was a cocky, mouthy wild child. They would never know how utterly sweet he was, how smart and loyal and brave and kind. They would never know because they never cared to. So yeah, they could all just go fuck themselves. His Dean was a good boy. The best.

A few minutes later Dean pulled back. He looked up at Connor. "I'm sorry, Connie. About everything. You should've just called Dad."

"No, I shouldn't have," Connor wiped the last of the moisture from under Dean's eyes and ran his fingers through his spiky hair. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he tried to smile; it wasn't his usual yet, but Connor was happy with it for now.

"I'm gonna call Sam out, alright?"

"Yeah, just-" Dean snuffled again. "Gimme a minute, will ya?"

"Sure," Connor smiled at him and headed for the bathroom.

Sam was seated on the floor with his back to the tub, hugging his raised knees. Connor slid down to sit next to him.

"You shouldn't have whipped him," there were tears in Sam's voice, but the tone was more accusing than sad. "It wasn't his fault I got hurt."

"Sam-"

"No," Sam rose to his knees and turned to face him, hands gripping Connor's arm. "You and Dad, you're always so hard on him. It's like you never cut him any slack, never."

Connor sighed; it wasn't true, least of all concerning himself, but Sam was upset and overreacting and Connor could understand that. "C'mere," he said, pulling Sam onto him. The kid was probably going to get too big for it soon, but for now he could snuggle rather comfortably on his oldest brother's lap. Connor let Sam lean his head on his shoulder and raked his fingers through his soft hair.

"Dean needs help sometimes," he said. "It's like… it's like he's a race car, tearing down the road at full speed. He's going so fast it's hard for him to get back on track if he diverts, or to avoid crashing into something. Dad and I, we're trying to help him stay on track, but when you have a powerful race car, you need powerful brakes. You know what I mean?"

Sam didn't answer for a little while, and then Connor felt him nodding. "Yeah, I think I do. But… I hate it when he gets punished."

Connor sighed again. "You and me both, buddy. Ready to come out now?"

Dean looked calm enough when they got back into the room, and he smiled at Sam. "How's your head, Sammy?"

Sam didn't answer, just went to him and wrapped his arms around his waist. Dean hugged him back, leaning his head to touch Sam's.

"I'm sorry," Connor heard him whisper. "I'm so sorry, Sammy. I never meant to get you hurt."

"It's okay," Sam's voice was hardly audible. "I don't want you to get hurt either, Dean."

"What, the whipping?" Dean's smile returned. "Nah, dude, don't worry about it. Connie hits like a girl."

Connor was about to make some retort, but Dean was peeking at him with that radiant, adorable grin on his face and a wink to boot, and all Connor could do was smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I have some more ideas for stories featuring Connor Winchester. Please let me know in the comments if it's something you'd be interested in!
> 
> Like my works? Want to subscribe and get updates on new stories? Make sure you subscribe to the **user** and not the specific work!


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